Slowest of Growths
by fanficology
Summary: Sherlock never asked for this. Then again, neither did his wife. Victorian Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

"Despite the best efforts of Sherlock Holmes' elder brother, Mycroft Holmes, to repair his family's financial equilibrium upon the death of their father, forces-both political and natural- conspired them, leaving the viscountcy close to bankruptcy. The family and their tenants needed a large and quick infusion of capital into the family's lands and coffers. The surest and quickest way to alleviate their problems was simple: one of the brothers must marry[…]"

"[…]But the might of the British peerage was weakening. Heiresses were thin on the ground and aristocratic heiresses were even rarer. A modern minded man for his era, Mycroft Holmes found a bride, not for himself but for his younger brother, in the emerging and wealthy mercantile class. Lawrence Hooper was a millionaire even in the 19th century due to his savvy investing, cotton speculation, and the demand for his company's innovative train engines. More importantly, Lawrence Hooper had an unwed daughter: Mary. […]"

Excerpt from _Forensics' Father: Biography of Sherlock Holmes, 10__th__ Viscount Brackley _by Percival Higgins.

January 1879

"Mrs. Hudson, has my husband returned yet?"

A grimace flittered across her housekeeper's face as she turned to face her. "No, ma'am he hasn't."

Mrs. Holmes placed her embroidery aside. "Has he or Dr. Watson sent a note along?"

It was her husband's birthday today and she had asked the cook to make his favorite meal to celebrate. Though he had remarked the day before that 'it was senseless to mark the day of one's birth for it was no great accomplishment on my part' she still thought the occasion deserved some recognition. She told him about the dinner menu earlier that morning as he sat on the divan, waving his arms about and mumbling about bands. After three minutes of no acknowledgment, she had slipped away, hoping he had heard her.

"No ma'am, he hasn't." Molly felt a stab of pity at the echo of shame in Mrs. Hudson's voice. Mrs. Hudson seemed to take Sherlock's neglect of her personally. She often heard her mutter under her breath about 'that sweet and stupid boy.'

"I see." Molly glanced at the clock and sighed. "Could you ask Annie to make up a plate for me and bring it here? No need to stand on ceremony if I am the only one. Feel free to distribute the food to the rest of the help if they so desire."

"Yes ma'am."

"Oh and Mrs. Hudson?" Mrs. Holmes called the older woman back. "Please set aside a portion for my husband so he may have something to eat when he returns."

"Of course Mrs. Holmes."

Molly grimaced at the title. She sometimes wished she had the courage to ask if the kind housekeeper would call her by her Christian name. She picked up her embroidery and viciously continued her work.

Part of her felt it was a relief to not have dinner with her husband. Not have to face him and his disdain of her. As if she wasn't a victim in this farcical marriage concocted by his brother and her father as well. At nine and twenty she had successfully avoided the trap of marriage for ten years. She had plans that did not involve marriage.

"Blast," Molly muttered as she missed her targeted area and began to slowly work the thread out before trying again. This was the last thing she wanted. For someone who boasted so loudly of his own powers of observation, one would think he would see her misery. Her loneliness. If she didn't have a great distaste for melodrama she would claim that her life ended the day her father announced her betrothal.

It was a pleasant autumn day and his pronouncement was the last thing she had ever expected. Molly fooled herself into believing that her parents had given up on the notion of her marriage. She was quickly disabused of that the moment she entered her father's study.

Her father was a good though conservative man and it never sat well with him that his daughter had a great deal of intelligence. Her brother, Theodore, took it in stride, finding his precocious little sister a delight. Molly could always count on him to pick up books that the ladies' bookshops didn't carry and gentlemen refused to sell to her. Before he left to oversee the Bristol branch of the family business he would use Molly as a resource, counting on her keen memory to remember facts and figures. Theodore gave Molly his old university texts and notes for her perusal after she outgrew her schoolroom and governess.

Lawrence Hooper did not see her mind as something to be nourished but something to be hidden. He, as well as her mother, told her to hide her intelligence while on the marriage mart. Intelligent unmarried ladies were hoydens; intelligent married ladies were charming. He only had himself to blame that his daughter was unable to hide her intelligence. A shrewd businessman, her father did not suffer fools well and neither did she.

In the end, her intelligence would be her undoing as she caught the eye of Viscount Brackley while discussing political reform at the opera with her cousins. Though a confirmed bachelor, it turned out he was in the market for a wife. Only not for himself but for his brother. When her father expounded upon Mycroft Holmes' visit and the marriage contract to his shocked daughter he made sure to give her grudging credit.

"The viscount's brother's only demand was that he not be saddled with an idiot. It appears you were blessed with a brain for a reason, love. Chin up, Mary! Once Mycroft dies, you will be a viscountess. Not bad for a manufacturer's daughter."

Considering that her father took to calling her Mary despite her vocal protests that she preferred her childhood moniker of 'Molly' he didn't care about what she wanted. It certainly didn't cross her father's mind that she had no desire to be a viscountess. But her father saw no qualms in disregarding her own aspirations. Hers were unseemly and unladylike. She needed a husband to reign her in.

Mrs. Holmes squeaked as she struck her finger after stabbing the linen viciously in remembered anger. She stuck the wounded digit in her mouth, soothing it with her tongue. After a minute of nursing it she pulled it out for examination. Satisfied that there wasn't a great injury she once again put her needle back to work.

At least for all of her husband's foibles, he was an intelligent man. It was too bad he found her to be an imbecile. Though as he kindly told her 'everyone is.' Perhaps if he actually took some time to talk to her he would find she had a decent enough mind. Considering that would mean abandoning his hobby of solving mysteries if only for ten minutes a day she did not see that happening.

If he wasn't tearing about London with John Watson at his side, he was locked up in his bedroom or pseudo laboratory on the third floor conducting 'experiments' or torturing them all with his violin. On the rare occasion neither of those kept him occupied, he spent his time twitching and sulking in his dressing gown to the point that she went to the chemist herself to fetch morphine if they had run out. There was no time in his day for her.

Her husband with his ridiculous hobbies, ridiculous experiments, and ridiculous name was too busy to even have supper with her.

In her opinion the only good thing that came out of this arrangement was her meeting Doctor Watson's wife at their wedding breakfast.

Molly's stitching slowed as she thought about her meeting with Mrs. John Watson.

Molly was her parents' best chance of increasing their social capital that lagged drastically behind their actual capital. She was their chance to break into the near impenetrable upper class. To their despair she never mastered the floating elegance they had wanted her to despite the best tutors and companions money could buy.

It was typical of her to meet her newest friend by nearly spilling champagne on her dress.

At least it gave them an opening to talk. It was stilted and awkward but it was the first glimmer of hope she had for her marriage. Despite his horrid behavior on their wedding day, surely a man who would associate with those of a lower social rank so unashamedly couldn't be all that unredeemable. Especially considering how kind both Doctor Watson and his wife were.

Mary Watson went out of her way to introduce herself to the new Mrs. Holmes, inviting her over for tea once she had settled into her marriage. She even took it upon herself to tell her that her new husband was good man despite all his rough edges.

Molly would be lying if she said that didn't stun her. But when she inquired why Mrs. Watson thought so she merely replied, "my husband would not give his loyalty to anyone less than a good man."

Privately, Molly thought that Mrs. Watson merely had a rather high opinion of her own husband. Something she could forgive considering how almost embarrassingly in love they acted with each other. It was sweet that Mary still blushed every time her husband entered the room as if she was a schoolgirl. It was something that Dr. Watson found amusing, considering the boyish grin he would give her.

Annie placing the food tray down on the table next to the chair startled Molly. "Thank you Annie," Molly murmured quietly. Annie was the one servant she brought with her to her new home. She had been Molly's lady maid for the last four years and she couldn't bear to part with her. Though the household on Baker Street wasn't expansive with only six other servants besides Annie, it was comforting to have a familiar face around.

"Would you like anything else, ma'am?"

"No, that will be all."

Annie quietly withdrew, leaving her mistress to her increasingly melancholic thoughts.

* * *

The door opened before Sherlock Holmes could touch the knob. Sherlock smirked as he unraveled his scarf from around his neck and stepped inside. "Always prompt, Bentley."

"Thank you sir," the butler said as he took the scarf, coat, and hat from the younger man. "Are you in for the night, Mr. Holmes?"

"I should think so, unless Lestrade comes begging for help yet again. I'll take my supper in the drawing room. Something light."

"Of course."

Sherlock stretched his long limbs before loping down the hallway. A good case always put him a good mood and this was a good case. He was ruminating on the details when he stopped suddenly in the doorway of the drawing room.

His wife was in a chair by the dying fire, her embroidery neglected on her lap. She was making those odd breathy noises he came to associate with her sleeping state. She only made those noises when she slept on her back. He learned much about her sleeping habits over their short marriage. He made it a habit to sleep in her chambers at least once a week to keep up appearances. It was easier than to face Mycroft's taunts and lectures about family responsibility. He had little time for the softer passions of life. All he needed in life was the work. The only time he eagerly sought his wife's bed was after he set his own on fire when reading late into night.

It was on John's advice that he offered to delay their wedding night until Mary was ready. An offer she eagerly accepted. Even though she chose the time, Sherlock still could barely look at her without feeling brutish. Obligations, familial and otherwise, were satisfied with truly as little inconvenience to himself as was possible.

"You couldn't have sent a note?" Came a quiet but firm voice behind him.

Sherlock grimaced as he turned to face his housekeeper. As his former nanny, Mrs. Martha Hudson had no problems scolding her employer. And Sherlock could not find it in him to reprimand her. "The case was more important."

"More important than your birthday? Your _wife_?"

Sherlock tilted his head as he looked at her. "Of course, everything is."

Judging by the resignation and sorrow on his housekeeper's face that was not the right thing to say. It didn't mean it wasn't true.

Sherlock quickly changed the subject. "She didn't finish her supper. This is the fifth meal this week at which she has picked."

"I know, poor girl. You should spend more time with her, she is a lovely young lady."

Sherlock bristled at the sympathy in her voice. It felt like Mrs. Hudson was scolding him. She was supposed to be on his side. She was supposed to sympathize with him for being forced into this match.

"I didn't want this marriage," he whispered fiercely. He didn't ask for his father to ruin his family financially. He didn't ask for Mycroft to find him a rich bride. He didn't want his home to be invaded by a tiny woman with too large eyes and a quiet, nervous demeanor. Yes, life became easier after her overly generous dowry infused the family estates with much needed cash and his own pockets became lined with more money. He was able to buy anything the laboratory equipment he wanted without taking on boring cases. That didn't mean he liked the trade off.

Mrs. Hudson looked him straight in the eye, throwing all etiquette aside. "Neither did she."

"I'll take my supper in the study," he said suddenly and too loudly. He cringed when he heard the sudden sharp inhalation that signaled his wife return to wakefulness.

"Mr. Holmes?" She asked drowsily. He winced slightly at her usage of the formal manner of a wife addressing her husband. In the two months they had been wed, he could count the number of times he called him by his Christian name on one hand.

"I did not mean to wake you." He glanced over his shoulder to see her straighten up from her slumped position.

"You missed supper, do you need me to ring for-"

"I've already taken care of it."

The responding silence was deafening. "Oh. Well. How was your ah mystery?"

Sherlock glowered. It was obvious that she thought his work to be a waste of time. She would rather see him as a typical member of the _ton. _Doing nothing but flitting from event to event, commenting on who met with whom. Letting his brain rot until he was no more than an imbecile at Bedlam. The only work worthy of such a member would be the running of estates. "Solved. I need to eat. Good night, Mary."

As he quickly walked down the hall he could have sworn he heard her softly say, "Molly."

* * *

Posting will probably be slow but I wanted to get this up.

I hope to make this story fairly realistic in general and for the time period it takes place. That doesn't mean I am not going to play with some things and take liberties (because hey! It's fic, not a history text). The main characters, in some respects, will be quite modern but in other respects they'll be a product of their time, so keep that in mind.

Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-keys for beta-ing and Lexie for her advice and encouragement.


	2. Chapter 2

"In Bloomsbury, at the residence of her husband, Reginald Barker CONSTANCE JANE RILEY BARKER, aged 33 years, 7 months and 18 days, after a distressing and brief illness found eternal rest. Her death created a melancholy void to her husband, her children and many affectionate relationships [...]"

15 January 1879 edition of _The Times_

* * *

"Have you any plans for today?"

Molly looked up in surprise. She set down her pen and turned from the letter she was composing to her brother in order to face her husband who was bouncing on his toes in the doorway. Dr. Watson stood behind him; eyes closed and hand to his forehead as if he was struck with a sudden headache.

Molly had long since resigned to living separate and parallel lives with her husband, him going out of his way to speak to her, especially making small talk, was very uncommon. The back parlor was her domain just as the study and laboratory were his. He had never visited before. "Nothing pressing."

His face broke into a grin, completely transforming his normally stiff visage. "Excellent. We have a funeral to attend."

Molly's mouth dropped. His joyous expression was completely at odds with his statement. "A funeral? For whom?"

Sherlock flitted his hand, as if batting her question away. "The funeral is in three hours. I've already sent for the milliner for mourning attire, as you have none in your wardrobe. They should be here within the hour. Speed is of the essence; we need to be as unobtrusive as possible. Being late will just draw attention…"

He left the room muttering to himself about possible routes and hackneys to take them to Bloomsbury.

Molly followed him with his eyes before turning to Dr. Watson. "Who died?"

Dr. Watson collapsed in the light blue armchair nearest her, earning a raised eyebrow from his best friend's wife. "A client came to us claiming that her daughter was murdered by her husband. It's her funeral."

Molly half rose from her desk chair in alarm, causing Dr. Watson to reflexively leap to his feet. "Oh my goodness! She should contact the police. How on earth can an amateur puzzle solver help her?"

"She has no evidence besides instinct, the police won't open up an inquiry. She hired Sherlock to find evidence to convince the police to investigate." The former army doctor tipped his head to the side. "Officially, I should say. Chances are Sherlock will have the case wrapped up and will just hand it over to them for prosecution."

"Can, can Mr. Holmes do that? Find evidence for a police investigation?"

"If the mother is right, Sherlock will find the evidence," Dr. Watson assured.

* * *

Two hours later Molly was draped in ebony crepe, her face obscured by a similarly colored veil and sitting in a hired carriage with her twitchy husband. She bit her lip and tried to contain her own desire to fidget. Ladies did not squirm or show nervousness. Also, her husband had already snapped at her once for fidgeting. Apparently while his was helpful to his 'process' her own was annoying and distracting.

It wasn't her fault that crepe was a very loud fabric that amplified her most subtle movements.

She brushed the curtain aside to look out at the very slowly passing shops. The congestion in the streets was even worse than to what she was accustomed.

"You have questions, out with it."

Molly tore her eyes from two arguing men outside the butcher's shop and looked up. "Why am I coming with you instead of Dr. Watson?"

It wasn't the only question she had but it was certainly the most pressing one. From what she had gleaned from Mrs. Hudson and Mary, she knew that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes rarely went any place besides their homes and sometimes Dr. Watson's medical practice without the other. The reason that Dr. Watson was happily on his way home for a relaxing day and she was accompanying her husband to a funeral of a possible murder victim was beyond her.

Her husband cocked one of his bushy eyebrows at her. "Obvious I would think. I need to keep a low profile. My…interests are not exactly secret. If I should show up on my own or with John, it could raise suspicion. Here, I am not an investigator but a dutiful husband supporting his wife in her time of distress."

Mrs. Holmes' brow furrowed in confusion. "Am I supposed to perpetuate this charade by acting distressed at this funeral?"

"Oh, I am reasonably certain you will not need to act. Your softhearted nature-"

Only her husband could make empathy sound like a disease.

"-Coupled with the fact that you are familiar with Mrs. Barker will no doubt lead to a satisfactory display of grief."

Molly mouthed 'Mrs. Barker' to herself as she tried to think of any acquaintance by that name. "Constance Barker?"

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

"Constance Barker has been murdered." Surely she had to be wrong. People she knew were _not_ murdered, it was just unfathomable.

"Possibly," Sherlock conceded before cracking his neck absentmindedly.

Molly took a deep breath and sat back heavily against the seat. _Murdered._

She hadn't spent much time with Constance after her marriage to Reginald Barker, a wealthy physician. When she was still Constance Riley, Molly counted her as a close acquaintance. They, along with Molly's cousin, attended the same ladies' literary clubs and shared similar societal views. Molly hadn't talked or thought of Constance in years. With Constance marrying below her station and becoming a mother and Molly slowly becoming a spinster, their social circles gradually became separate. Molly never dreamed when she awoke this morning she would be attending her funeral.

"Ah, we're here. Just in time too," Sherlock said, peering out the window. A collection of empty coaches was gathered outside the Barkers' Bloomsbury home, waiting for the coffin to be placed upon the hearse and the funeral procession to begin. Their row house was quite an ordinary dingy gray, nothing about it suggested it was the site of something as gruesome as a murder.

Molly shivered as she caught sight of the restless ostrich plumed black horses harnessed to the hearse. The foot attendants had already broke into the gin and were freely imbibing as they milled about waiting for the processional and their roles to begin. Looking back up at the Barkers' house, she suddenly felt like an outsider, a voyeur on this family's grief. Fingertips brushing her arm brought her attention away from the milieu and back to her husband.

Sherlock opened the door and quickly alighted, turning to help her from the carriage. In contrast to the excitable energy he displayed in the carriage he looked the picture of solemn mourner, from his stern expression to the jet crepe band on his top hat. Dread filled Molly as she grabbed his hand and stepped down onto the slushy pavement. This felt wrong. Surely it would be more decent to wait until after the funeral to investigate. She was fairly sure that there was no way to stop Constance from being interred today, even if they could find evidence. Surely it would be better to not intrude but wait.

The door opened before they could knock, causing the black beribboned yew wreath to swing precariously on its hook. The butler bowed slightly as Sherlock handed them their invitation before taking off his hat. "The procession shall begin as soon as the family has greeted everyone, sir," he said.

Sherlock nodded as he ushered Molly into the throng of people who had already arrived. He bent close to Molly to whisper in her ear, "We don't have much time. I am going to look around, wait in the queue for me."

His hot breath caused Molly to shiver, her veil the only thing separating his lips and her ears. "A-all right," she agreed. With that, he was gone leaving her to wait to make her condolences.

Molly tried to act casual as she stood in wait. She scanned the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face with whom she could talk. Their social circles weren't too dissimilar, surely there would be someone she knew, if only to make mundane conversation. All she saw were pale, drawn unfamiliar faces.

People with the same distinctive nose as Constance sat on divans and chairs, red eyed and stiff. A teenager with Constance's grey eyes stood stiffly by his mother. Molly's eyes began to burn upon seeing their genuine grief.

She was never very good at disassociating with the living.

Molly sniffed and turned her attention to the landscape on the wall, studying its pastel colors and composition in an attempt to distract herself and regain some control.

Her breath caught as she noticed the scribbled signature in the corner. _C. Riley 1869. _ How did she not know that Constance painted? It wasn't an expert landscape by any means, Molly could easily see where certain aspects just weren't quite right, but it was still quite lovely if only for the use of colors.

A slight cough behind her caught her attention. Oh the line had moved without her. She whispered her apologies and quickly closed the gap between her and the mourner before her.

The closer she drew to the grieving family the more dread started to set in. She was sure that she would say something stupid or give away the reason she was truly here. Molly couldn't claim to be entirely comfortable in the most typical of social occasions, let alone in more uncommon ones.

Molly desperately tried to think of memories of Constance that she could share with her family as she gave her condolences. To let them know that she remembered their wife, daughter, and sister. For some reason, all she could remember was Constance's love of _Jane Eyre: An Autobiography._ She had begged it off a married friend and constantly chattered about it. She even loaned it to Molly with a sly smile so that she too could indulge in the gothic novel and admire Jane's audacity.

Molly groaned, surely sharing the deceased's love of improper books was not the correct memory to share. Especially considering its infamous and ridiculous reputation as a book that espoused anti-Christian views.

She was seriously considering faking a faint once she realized she was next when she felt a presence behind her. "Oh thank the Lord," she muttered when she turned around to see her husband standing next to her.

Sherlock shot her a surprised look before turning to offer their condolences to the gathered family.

He was a rather brilliant actor. Truly. He should have taken up acting as a hobby instead of mysteries. Though honestly both were equally inappropriate.

When he told her that he was going to play the dutiful husband she did not expect him to do so to such a degree that he did. She expected that he would offer his condolences on their behalf, claiming she was too distraught to convey them properly herself. She even accepted his less than complimentary insinuations of the weakness of her sex.

However she did not anticipate him finding her a spot to sit and fetching her a plate from the buffet, fussing over her like a mother hen. When she hesitated in taking part in the light lunch provided, he knelt down and entreated her to eat, to the approving looks of those around them.

Molly was so flabbergasted that she ate without any more encouragement.

If she was being honest, Molly wished that he would cease his shamming. She would rather prefer his genuine neglect to his false interest. At least then she would know what his thoughts were towards her. Honestly, if she were an outside observer, Molly thought that she would have been pulled in by his act.

The moment they were back in the carriage and the door was shut, Sherlock shut his eyes, his act done and disregarded. Molly sighed as she closed the covering of the windows as they waited to join the funeral procession. It was entirely probable that he would disappear into his mind for hours. She only hoped he would emerge in time for the funeral. She had no idea how to rouse him, or if he could be roused, from his so called 'mind palace.'

Her husband's quiet mutterings combined with the barely perceptible swaying of the coach began to lull her to sleep. The darkened interior was certainly doing her no favors. Her fingers itched to pull up the blinds and watch London pass them by for want of a distraction. Whoever thought that closed blinds during funeral processions were _de rigeur _had obviously never been to a funeral in the city. Even with people making way for them, eager to avoid any brush with death no matter how minor, they would still be cloistered for at least an hour.

After exhausting her favored mental exercises, Molly finally gave in to her urge. She leaned against the side of the carriage and closed her eyes. She was still on the edge of wakefulness, her thoughts slippery when she heard Sherlock mutter, "Finally."

She opened her eyes to see her husband peeking through the blinds. Molly only caught a fleeting glance but it was enough to see that they had finally pulled into Kensal Green, resting place of many of London's notables.

Sherlock leapt from the carriage the moment it came to a stop some fifteen minutes later. He held out his hand to help her down from the carriage. "It'll be a silver crown for you if you wait," he called to the driver.

"'Course, guv," the driver replied with a grin and tip of his hat.

Sherlock nodded at the driver before placing Molly's hand on his arm. They walked sedately down the gravel path joining the growing crowd of mourners who were murmuring and bobbing about like a murder of crows. Molly snorted lightly at the unfortunate wording given the circumstances. Sherlock patted her hand, giving her a curious look. Molly shook her head, glad for her veil, and turned her attention to her surroundings.

In the warmer months, the greenery and shade obscured the collection of white marble and lent the cemetery an almost fae atmosphere. In the dead of winter, the trees void of life and snow clinging to the ground it wasn't hard to remember the macabre nature of the area.

The white Doric chapel loomed ahead, the stained glass twinkling through the doors above the altar the only splash of color to be seen. As soon as they entered, Sherlock steered her towards the back of the crowd, obscuring her view of the service.

Molly was stuck between her husband and a rather over large man to her right who kept repeatedly sniffing. Molly was still debating whether or not it would be appropriate to offer up her handkerchief to the irritating sniffler so that he may blow his nose when the service began.

It was a relatively short funeral, devoid of a communion service, for which Molly was grateful. Her position at the back of the chapel meant that she could not see what little was going on, her view taken up by a sea of black, no matter how she shifted. The vicar doled out platitudes that Molly was sure she had heard before at other funerals. The eulogies were long but devoid of any meaningful sentiment. Molly hoped that when the Lord saw fit that she should enter His kingdom that her surviving relatives didn't fall into cliché. Short and personal was her preference, not long flowery language which painted the deceased as an almost deity, devoid of any fault.

As soon as the final prayers and blessings were uttered, Sherlock was gone from her side. Molly didn't notice his leaving until she turned to take his arm.

Molly tried to find him in the crowd but her petite stature prevented her. She shuffled out of the chapel with the rest of the mourners, intent on waiting outside for her husband to emerge. The women were already breaking off into small groups to make the journey back to the coaches to wait. Only the men were to witness the internment.

Personally, Molly thought it was bizarre that women were not allowed to attend. It wasn't as if the body would be on display for all to see or that they didn't know what exactly was going to happen at an interment. She was pondering the possible reasons why women were not allowed to observe when she heard someone softly call her name. Molly forgot all about waiting for her husband as she looked for the person calling her name.

Sarah Sawyer emerged from the crowd and gave her a weak smile as she made her way over to her.

"I was unaware that you knew Constance," Molly greeted

"We're cousins. Our mothers are sisters," Sarah supplied as she took Molly's arm. Molly followed her lead and joined the rest of the women on their way back to the carriages.

"Oh my, I had no idea. I'm so sorry for your loss. My cousin was good friends with Constance before she passed. I knew her from the literary gatherings she would beg me to attend before she became too ill. I felt it was only right to pay my respects since Joanna could not."

"We weren't very close," Sarah admitted. "We were as children but we grew apart after her marriage. Her husband forbade our interaction. Thought I would be a bad influence. We still exchanged letters when we had the chance but you know horrible I am at remembering to return correspondence."

Molly gave her a sympathetic smile. Molly did not have a large family, Joanna had been her only cousin before she succumbed to tuberculosis, but she would be loath to lose the family she did have.

"Congratulations. On your marriage. Quite the coup to land yourself the son of a peer," Sarah said as they walked arm and arm down the white gravel pathway riddled with black pieces of crepe that had come off due to the slush.

"Indeed, I am quite fortunate," Molly said, parroting the phrase she used so often during her engagement when she was besieged by incredulous well-wishers.

There wasn't really anything else to say. She was not about to admit the dissatisfaction she had with her marriage or her jealousy that she did not possess the forward thinking parents that Sarah did.

"We were grieved to see you leave. And lost. We have no one to beg answers off of and certainly no one with enough patience to explain things. My marks have gone down substantially!"

Molly let out a strained laugh. "Oh honestly, Sarah! You make it sound as if you were a dunce when I know for certain that you had better marks than I in almost half of our classes!"

"I wonder how your father even found out?" Sarah contemplated aloud. "You'd think if he didn't notice during the first two years, he certainly wouldn't in the third!"

"Lord Brackley, my brother in law," Molly clarified after noticing Sarah's baffled look, "told him during marriage negotiations. Father was furious. And embarrassed, I think, because he never noticed. He recalled my brother from Bristol to dress him down in person. He even sold my books."

Sarah gasped softly. "Molly, I'm so sorry. I wish there was something I could have done."

Molly shrugged. "There was nothing to do. Father threatened to cut Theodore off if he helped me and I had no way to support myself. My life isn't so horrible, boring but not horrible. Theodore replaced all my books as a wedding present. My husband is not a cruel man. I am more fortunate than not."

Sarah nodded in understand. "More lucky than Constance. She loved Reggie but I don't think he felt the same for her."

"Really?" They slowed down, creating even more distance between themselves and the other women for privacy.

Sarah shot her a guilty look. "I won't go into details, it's not my place, but he was indiscreet in dishonoring his marriage vows. Rumor is the governess had to resign because she was with his child. He also had a propensity for gambling if family gossip is to be believed. He wasn't all bad," Sarah hastened to add. "He apparently was quite vigilant about his family's health. Always alert to any maladies that plagued them. I overheard Constance telling my mother about how he favored dosing the family and himself with tartar emetic at the slightest indication of irregularity."

"He is a credit to his profession to be so vigilant," Molly murmured.

She occasionally wondered how she would feel if Sherlock employed a mistress. Though for all of her money, her family's values were firmly middle class and one did not take on a mistress. Her mother warned her that the peerage was different and to turn a blind eye to any of her husband's indiscretions. Though if Sherlock had any indiscretions he was certainly very good at being discrete. Molly couldn't imagine Sherlock being unfaithful. Not for any love of their marriage vows, though despite his misbehavior by and large he was quite the gentleman, but he seemed even more disinterested in the physical aspect of their marriage than he was in the emotional one. Surely, it would be more convenient to have a wife than a mistress and one thing Molly knew well about her husband was just how slothful he could be. Why, if they happened to be in the same room and a servant was needed, she was the one to ring for them, as he would refuse to move!

Molly glanced over her shoulder at the sound of quick heavy footsteps approaching. Her eyes widened when she saw her husband walking swiftly towards them, an excited gleam in his eye. She had assumed that he was staying for the internment with the rest of the gentlemen.

"Molly?" Sarah questioned, turning to see what caught her companion's attention. "Oh."

Sherlock's eyes flitted over Sarah, as they did every time he encountered someone, before turning to her. Clearly Sarah was not worth his time.

"Oh, um, Miss Sawyer, allow me to introduce my husband, Mr. Holmes; Mr. Holmes, Miss Sawyer. We studied together for a time."

Sherlock gave a curt bow in response to Sarah's bobbed curtsey. "A pleasure. Pardon the interruption, ladies, but I need to see my wife home."

"Of course," Sarah agreed. "Perhaps when you have time Molly, I might be able to pay you a call?"

"When I have time? Oh my dear, I think your time constraints are presently more pressing than mine."

Sarah squeezed Molly's hand fondly before taking her leave.

Sherlock wordlessly offered his wife his arm. They returned to their waiting couch in silence. The journey to Baker Street was much quicker then the journey to Kensal Green, the driver rushing as quickly as possible through the crowded London streets at Sherlock's urging.

Sherlock jumped out of the carriage the moment it stopped, just barely managing to stay still long enough to assist her. As soon as he paid the driver he called out to one of the few street urchins that lingered around their doorstep. Molly had never seen such a gathering of unfortunate children until she moved to Baker Street. Her family home on Cavendish Square had no such characters milling about.

"Take this to the Yard as quick as you can," her husband said, handing the boy a note and a coin. "Give this to Lestrade and only Lestrade, understood?"

The boy grinned wildly, showing off his two emerging front teeth.

Sherlock watched the boy disappear into the crowd for a second before turning to escort her indoors.

Bentley opened the door as soon as they came to the stoop, whisking away their outerwear in as quick and efficient a fashion that only butlers could employ.

Molly was halfway up the stairs intent on changing out of her ghastly uncomfortable dress when her husband's voice stopped her.

"Molly," he said in a questioning tone, as if studying how his mouth formed the syllables of her name.

"Yes?" she replied, turning to look at him.

Sherlock's head was cocked to the side. Her husband was studying her the way he only did once before, on their first meeting almost four months ago in her family's drawing room. He didn't say anything for the first few minutes, choosing to look fixedly on her as if trying to learn all her secrets.

"You look more like a Molly than a Mary. It suits you. Childhood moniker?"

Molly's mind went blank for a moment in surprise. She was unsure of what she was expecting, but it certainly was not that. "Yes, my nanny used to call me that. She said I reminded her of her sister."

"It's more common among the lower classes. Your parents did not like the connotation."

"Yes. Well, no. I mean, when I made my bow my parents insisted on calling me Mary but beforehand it was always Molly."

Sherlock broke eye contact, his eyes darting to the side as if filing the information away. He walked away without a word towards his study, nodding to himself.

Molly sighed and continued climbing the stairs.

* * *

Nothing. _Nothing! _ That damnable idiot found nothing!

Sherlock threw the autopsy report against the door. When that did not make a suitable enough noise, he hurled an ugly statue of a bulldog he received as a wedding present against it as well.

There. Much more satisfying.

Reginald Barker showed all the evidence of murdering his wife. His over the top display of grief, his guilt around his children, the avoidance of his mother in law, the sudden dismissal of a pregnant governess, the way he put on his gloves! All of it pointed to the fact that Constance Barker's end was not natural.

She was exhumed from her grave almost immediately the dirt not even given time to settle. Lestrade made it clear that he did not like the idea of exhuming Mrs. Barker, especially because her husband quite vehemently objected. Only once Sherlock hunted down the currently unemployed governess and gained her confession to her adulterous affair did Lestrade relent.

There were at least ten theories racing through his head but he needed more data before he could settle on one. Data he did not have because Nigel Anderson was an _idiot._ He was unworthy to work in the field of police work, let alone that of deduction! The magistrate refused to issue a search warrant until Constance Barker's manner of death could be ascertained and Anderson determined there was no foul play, baring him from gaining further access to the Barker residence.

Sherlock let out a cry of frustration as he hurdled his glass against a wall. All of this work for nothing!

"Mr. Holmes! What on earth is going on?"

Sherlock whirled around to see his wife standing in the doorway. Her alert eyes contrasted with the sage green dressing gown that was hastily thrown over her nightclothes. Her hair was bound in a thick braid that peeked out from the thick lace of her robe.

His eyes flicked to the clock. Three in the morning. Later than he had thought.

"Anderson is an idiot."

"I beg your pardon?"

"An idiot! A moron! A buffoon! A doddy!" He ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Mr. Anderson would be…"

"A man who calls himself a coroner but I wouldn't be surprised if the closest he came to working with the human body would be-" Sherlock cut himself off. It was quite obvious that Anderson enjoyed the employ of women of disrepute but he was not going to say so in front of his _wife._ "Whoever trained that man, if anyone, should have any sort of licensure removed as he was clearly not up to the task."

He threw himself down on the couch. Wasted. All of the time wasted and he will not know how Barker did it. Damn Anderson! And damn the magistrate too! He knew Barker did it, he just didn't know how.

"Oh leave it," he said when he heard the rustling of paper. A servant will pick it up in the morning, no need for her to do it. Last thing he needed was for her to read the report and become distraught. He had no patience for feminine histrionics. Medicine had no room for whatever delightfully asinine euphemism society created this week for body parts in its spare time.

Oh his mind was becoming slippery! It always did in the dark of the night when he had deprived himself of sleep. It had only been three days; there was no reason for him to be so exhausted as he was now. He should close his eyes and think. That will get his mind back on track. Sherlock just needed to focus on the work. To just think…

"Is there no chemical report?"

"What?" Sherlock asked. He was surprised when he opened his eyes to see the hazy gray light of dawn.

"I said, is there no chemical report?"

He twisted away from the back of the sofa to see Molly sitting by the fire, the pages of the report placed in neat little piles around her and his notebook on her lap. There was soot on her dressing gown from where she had poked the dying fire inexpertly with the fire iron. Her hair, which had been falling out earlier, was pulled in a tight and messy bun low on her head. Sherlock blinked at her. What on earth was she doing? How long had he been asleep? He sat up, a blanket pooling at his lap. Sherlock touched it for a moment, where had this come from?

"I am merely inquiring because her symptoms and the physical evidence suggest the possibility of aconite or antimonial poisoning. It doesn't look like arsenic, if the tongue is truly flesh colored. However without a chemical report I can't say for certain. The damage to the liver and gastrointestinal lining," Molly paused to shift through the papers, "do seem to point to antimony. Aconite doesn't seem likely for surely _someone _would have noticed signs of paralysis, don't you think? In the interest of honesty, Miss Sawyer mentioned earlier about how Dr. Barker was fond of antimonial cures. That gave me a nudge in that direction. I say, Mr. Holmes are you all right?"

For the first time since he could remember his mind was completely empty without any help whatsoever from the poppy plant. He was aware that his mouth was hanging open like a dead fish but he could not seem to be able to shut it. For a moment he thought that there was a possibility that he might still be dreaming. "What?"

* * *

Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-key for beta-ing!

Also, thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think, I appreciate the time you guys take out to read and write reviews.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-key/ohtigermytiger for beta-ing!

Also, thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think, I appreciate the time you guys take out to read and write reviews

* * *

Student's Form.

_APPLICATION FOR ADMISSION_

TO THE

London School of Medicine for Women.

I hereby apply to be admitted as a Student of the School, and I declare that I intend to pursue a complete course of qualifying medical study, and to present myself in due course to the Examining Boards with a view to obtaining a registrable diploma.

I undertake to conform in all respects to the regulations laid down by the Executive Council, and in particular to abstain from presenting myself to any Examining Board until I have received from the Dean of the School full permission to do so.

_Signature, _Mary Augusta Hooper

Address: Alderley House, Cavendish Square, London

* * *

_Brooks, Hurles, and Tyler-Smiths, Solicitors _

19 January 1875

Mr. Theodore Hooper authorizes the transfer of the sum of £1,100 from his account to The London School of Medicine for Women on behalf of Mary Augusta Hooper for the Spring Term[…]

* * *

"I-I," Molly stuttered. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried." She stood up, Sherlock's notebook dropping on the pile of papers with a soft thud. Molly wrung her hands for a moment before quickly making her way across the floor.

Sherlock lunged across the side of the couch and caught her hand before she could exit. "What were you saying about antimony?"

Molly ducked her head to the side, obscuring her face in shadows. "J-just that her results were consistent with antimonial poisoning and her body should be tested."

Sherlock's gripped tightened involuntarily. "Antimony," he whispered to himself. Easy for a physician to obtain and easy to administer without arousing suspicion from either the victim or the help. He glanced at the clock on the mantle and frowned. "No one will be at Bart's this early. Damn it."

"Could you let go of me? Please?" Molly asked.

Sherlock glanced down at where he was still holding his wife's wrist. "Oh, of course. Antimony. How do you know what the signs of antimonial poisoning are?"

Molly wrapped her arms around her. Sherlock cocked his head to the side at the defensive move. His wife was by and large an open book to him; the fact that she could have a secret was definitely intriguing.

"I had wished to specialize in pathology," Molly said, her chin set in a manner approximating that of defiance, which was completely at odds with her nervous body language.

_Pathology? Graduating?_ His mind raced as he put together the pieces of information.

"Ah. You mentioned you studied together with that woman at the funeral. I had assumed you meant during your youth. Sloppy of me, you were obviously trained by a governess, judging by your penmanship. No, you were talking of more recent studies. University of London just started admitting female students this year so you couldn't have attended there. To be that knowledgeable in pathology, to know poisons, that is far beyond beginner's courses."

His wife's mouth dropped open and her eyes grew wider as he talked. It distantly occurred to him that this might have been the first time she had heard him deduce out loud. John had warned him to keep his deductions to himself during their brief pseudo courting phase. Mycroft had also told him the same thing, with the addition of a threat that he would reduce his allowance to the point that would threaten his independence if he endangered the betrothal due to his actions. After their first meeting there was no need to deduce her, as he had done it all in his head.

"That really only leaves one option: London School of Medicine for Women. There's no possible way you could have studied at Edinburgh. Interesting choice for a woman of your class. You're a lady of leisure, no need for employment. Especially not something as controversial as being a physician. Nursing is much more acceptable for women who work in medicine. You haven't graduated, though. If you had you would have attempted to find a position instead of going through with the wedding because why go through the years of study and stress, for it had to be stressful to do your studies while hiding it from your parents, they definitely would not have allowed such a thing, and maintaining at least a veneer of society life to throw it away on marriage. You had to know that the chances of your continued study after marriage would be next to impossible."

Molly continued to stare at him, bug eyed and slack jawed as she had throughout his deduction for an uncomfortable period of time. She eventually blinked and mouthed the word 'how' without ever actually managing to utter it.

"Simple. I observed and I deduced from what I observed." He shrugged. "Do you know how to test for antimonial poisoning?"

Molly shook her head as if to clear it. "In theory. You need to use Marsh's process and uh, Stas's…?" Her voice trailed off as her eyes darted to the side. "No, not Stas's. Reinsch's process to test for antimony. I have the steps written down in one of my chemistry notebooks. I've only done it twice." She bit her lip before continuing. "I was supposed to have a chemistry practicum last semester. Why?"

Sherlock strolled to the bell pull and yanked it. "I am quite skilled in chemistry. If you have the steps, I can easily obtain the results. Get dressed, we're going to St. Bartholomew's."

Molly froze under his gaze, her brown eyes wide and bright. "_We_ are?"

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "Yes. _We._ I need you to assist me in testing. No one is in the laboratory, John refuses do lab work-with good reason, he's horribly incompetent- and I refuse to wait. This case has gone on long enough."

"You want me to help?" Her voice was high and incredulous.

"Obviously."

"You don't think it's unnatural?" Her words were rushed and almost unintelligible.

Sherlock scoffed. "Unnatural? Hardly, it's quite logical. You went to school, you learned, and now you're going to apply your knowledge. I fail to see what could possibly be unnatural about that. Now stop you're blithering. We're wasting valuable time!"

Sherlock was not entirely sure what reaction he was expecting but the incredulous laugh that escaped from his wife's lips was definitely not one. He shifted uncomfortably when he realized that there were tears at the corners of her eyes. Perhaps his last few sentences were a bit too harsh. John always said he needed to be more gentle and tactful. While tact and gentleness was a waste of time in his profession, he supposed he should consider employing it on occasion with his wife. If only to avoid Mrs. Hudson's scowls and John's scolding. John always knew when he upset Molly; it was a problem inherent to the fact that their wives were close friends. Mary had a tendency to run to her husband with tales. "Uh, I mean. Would you please accompany me to St. Bartholomew's?"

"Yes!" Molly replied as she nodded her head wildly, a grin wide on her face.

Oh. Perhaps she wasn't upset after all.

She stepped towards him, stopping just a foot away. He warily watched her hands as they clenched and unclenched rapidly. Was she going to hug him? Her hands eventually clasped together, as if she had to physically restrain herself from touching him, an issue she never had before. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."

Sherlock stared at her, unsure of what to say in reply. Before he could think of something she swept past him, making her way down the carpeted hall, her gait just short of a run.

"Come, Annie." He heard her say in the distance. "I need to dress quickly!"

Her lady's maid's faint, sleepy reply was nearly drowned out by the sound of Molly's running footsteps up the staircase. Odd how such a small person could make such noise.

Sherlock caught a glimpse of himself as he moved to pick up his abandoned notebook. He should probably change his clothes in to something more suitable as well.

* * *

"Would you like the green today, ma'am? Or perhaps the purple? It does flatter you so." Annie quickly covered her mouth as she yawned.

"No, no, no," Molly replied, spitting out the lurid pink remnants of her toothpaste into the washbasin. "The plaid."

"Ma'am…" Annie's tone was that of great reluctance. The dress was not one of her most fashionable ones, in fact it bordered on the line of ugly. Even Molly wasn't sure of what she thought of the dress or why she had it made. Some times it was hideous and at others it was perfectly acceptable. No matter its aesthetic attributes, it was extremely comfortable and warm, which was always a boon in the winter. Also she wouldn't mind if it became mussed in the laboratory.

"Yes, yes I know you hate it but that's the dress for today. Hurry," Molly urged. She doubted that Sherlock would leave without her but she was not going to take any risks. She was actually going back to the lab! No need to endure any tedious social visits. No need to micromanage the household for lack of industry. No need to go shopping if only to fill the time while counting down the days when she would meet with her charities, the only place she found of herself of use. Today was a day of when she would finally do _something._

The brunette woman shifted from foot to foot in impatient excitement as Annie began laying out all of her undergarments. Molly snatched her chemise and bloomers and rushed behind the changing screen. Her nightgown in a pile on the floor, she hurriedly slipped into her garments.

"Oh don't worry about the wrinkles. It'll be mucked up soon enough," Molly said when she reappeared. She sat on the bed and slipped on her stockings, making sure to tie them tightly before grabbing her corset to begin hooking the front. "Oh for goodness sakes," she muttered when she encountered difficulties.

"Miss Mary, please let me do that! It'll be much quicker."

Molly sighed and dropped her hands. Annie efficiently fastened the front of her employer's corset before moving to tighten the laces in the back. Molly tried her best not to fidget as Annie methodically pulled. Thankfully, the bustle had finally gone out of style in favor of slimmer styles, so she only had to bother with a petticoat.

"Are you sure you won't change your mind?" Annie asked, holding the underskirt in her arms. "I truly think that purple or the burgundy would be much more pleasing."

Molly double-checked that her petticoat was buttoned in place and held out her arms. She bent over slightly and said, "The plaid, Annie."

The maid shook her head as she looped the skirt over Molly's head. She swiftly straightened the skirt before placed the similarly patterned overskirt on top. "Such beautiful dresses and you chose this one."

"I'm going to the laboratory today, Annie." Molly could barely keep the excitement out of her voice as she pulled on her matching bodice.

"Does Mr. Holmes know?" Annie's eyes widened the moment she finished speaking. "That wasn't my place. I'm so sorry, ma'am."

"No, it wasn't," Molly agreed. She walked over to her vanity, perched on the edge of the bench and began to let down her hair. "Something simple and quick."

"Mr. Holmes asked me to accompany him," Molly continued while Annie brushed her hair. She wasn't truly upset with Annie for her comment. After years of Annie coming with her to lectures and helping cover up her true activities with little incentive, their relationship was closer than most ladies with their maids. Molly did not appreciate the reminder that almost everything she did was reliant upon her husband's permission. Many of her friends found liberation in their marriage and starting their own households and family, Molly's was a cage. Now it seemed that there was a chance that it didn't have to be as claustrophobic an institution as she had feared. If her husband wished for her help and supported her learning, perhaps he would allow her to assist him further. Employment as a pathologist was now a lost dream but perhaps she could at least finish what she had begun, if for no reason but her own fulfillment.

A knock on the connecting door to her husband's room startled Molly.

"Are you nearly ready?" Her husband's voice came through the door impatiently.

"Almost!" Molly flinched as Annie twisted her hair a bit too harshly in her attempt to neatly gather Molly's long hair. Annie quickly pinned her mistress's hair in tight bun at the base of her skull. "You may come in, if you wish."

The door immediately opened. Sherlock looked as neatly dressed as he normally was with the exception of his hair. His normally styled hair was a barely tamed mass of nearly cherubic curls.

_Goodness, he looks rather fetching, _Molly thought before rising from her chair to grab her heavy winter bonnet.

"Mrs. Hudson arranged for cook to pack some leftover scones for your breakfast. No time for tea, but there should be some at Barts."

Molly nodded dumbly as she tied the velvet laces beneath her chin. She smiled at her husband. "I'm ready!"

Sherlock's eyes quickly raked over her. He arched his eyebrows and asked, "Do you really wish to go shoeless?"

Molly's cheeks reddened. She had completely forgotten about her shoes! Molly looked over at Annie who was helpless standing by her wardrobe, holding out Molly's most comfortable pair of brown boots.

Molly sat down, wordlessly and hiked up her skirts so that Annie could put on her shoes. The moment Annie fastened the last button Molly sprang up. "I just need to fetch my notebooks from the parlor."

"Good, Bentley should have hailed a carriage by now. Meet me out front." He turned abruptly on his heel and left.

Molly quickly made her way to her back parlor and scooped up all of her old notebooks, even the ones unrelated to chemical techniques. She was not going to risk bringing the wrong notebook along. If she made a mistake, who knew if she would ever have a second opportunity?

She stuffed the notebooks into her battered carpetbag.

Bentley was waiting down the hall, holding out her favorite gray cape.

"Thank you, Bentley," Molly said as he helped her into her outerwear.

Bentley nodded, handing her her soft gloves. "Mr. Holmes is waiting in the carriage outside, Mrs. Holmes. Shall I carry your bag for you?"

"No, thank you Bentley." Molly slipped on her gloves and grabbed her bag. "I have it quite in hand."

"Mrs. Holmes!" came a cry from behind her. Mrs. Hudson walked down the hall quicker than Molly thought possible. She had overheard the housekeeper's complaints of a bad hip numerous times in the few months she had been at Baker Street. Though Mrs. Hudson was dressed, her hair was still in a thin silver braid and she had a nightcap still on her head.

"Mrs. Hudson," Molly greeted.

"Here you go, dear. I left it out for Sher-_Mr._Holmes to take," Mrs. Hudson held up a rather large bundled cheesecloth that Molly could only imagine was full of the scones her husband had mentioned, "but you know how he gets when there is a case brewing."

Molly was a bit surprised to find herself nodding knowingly. She _did_ know how single-minded Sherlock became while on a case, eschewing all food and drink except for overly sweetened coffee. It surprised that she knew this fact about this man who was little more than a complete stranger that she happened to live with.

Mrs. Hudson continued to speak, returning Molly's attention to the aging housekeeper. "I wish he would remember to eat, the silly boy. Now I packed some scones along with some ham and hard cheese. Lord only knows how long you two will be gone." Mrs. Hudson grabbed her hand, surprising Molly.

She knew that Mrs. Hudson was Sherlock's former nanny and their relationship was abnormally close but being this familiar with the help was quite new to her. Her family was always polite to their servants and treated them with respect but none of them would be so unabashedly bold as 221b's housekeeper. Somehow Mrs. Hudson's affections were not entirely unpleasant.

"You be careful, who knows what nonsense he'll stir up. You're his wife, not Dr. Watson."

"I'm sure we'll encounter nothing untoward at St. Bartholomew's, Mrs. Hudson," Molly protested weakly.

The housekeeper gave her a dark look. "Mr. Holmes also has a host of experiments that he keeps running at St. Bartholomew's."

Molly couldn't quite suppress a grimace. She was quite familiar with the smells and occasional bangs that would emanate from her husband's pseudo laboratory.

"What is taking so long?" Came an irritated voice from behind Molly.

Molly looked over her shoulder to see her husband standing in the doorway, snowflakes melting on his black curls. If he was attempting to hide his irritation, he was not doing it at all well.

"I was making sure Mrs. Holmes was prepared for the day," Mrs. Hudson said pertly.

Sherlock let out a low humph. He reached past Molly and grabbed the food-laden cheesecloth. "Well, if we're all done preparing, let's go."

He turned on his heel and left, leaving Molly to follow in his wake.

* * *

The only acknowledgement Molly made to the fact that she knew Constance Barker was placing a rag gently over her face. After that, she went to work with more confidence than Sherlock had ever truly expected. Molly had almost cowered next to him as they had walked through the corridors of Barts, as if worried someone was about to jump out of the shadows and demand to know why she was here. She visibly relaxed as soon as she stepped into the cool, windowless basement room that served as the mortuary. After a perfunctory inspection of the autopsy tools, his wife walked through past the line of sheet-shrouded corpses, pausing only to read their toe tags.

The few samples Anderson had taken were deemed unnecessary to keep and discarded. Hopefully his incompetence will be a blessing in disguise. Fresh (well relatively given Mrs. Barker's rapidly deteriorating state) samples obtained by a theoretically competent scientist would be much more preferable to whatever slapdash method Anderson no doubt used to collect his own.

Molly snorted sharply as she efficiently snipped the sutures holding Mrs. Barker's chest together, causing his lips to twitch. The sickly sweet smell of decomposition was always more prominent once the cadaver was opened, or reopened in this case. It was a difficult scent to become accustomed to, decomposition. It burned the nose and clung to clothing like ink, almost impossible to be rid of even after a thorough washing. The smell of decomposition was almost cyclic in nature. As soon as the nose becomes acclimated to the stench of decomposition, another wave hits.

"Do you happen to have any peppermint oil?"

"There should be some." Sherlock slid off his stool and began rummaging through the vials on a nearby desk. He let out a soft noise of victory as he picked up the bottle. Peppermint and decay, the two smells were forever entwined in his mind. He put a small drop of oil on his finger and rubbed it under his nose, enjoying the cool tingling sensation as it reached his sinuses.

He put another drop on his finger and went to do the same for his wife. He bent over to see, as her face was mere inches from Mrs. Barker's abdomen. Molly jerked back in surprise. "What are you doing?" she nearly cried in response.

"Putting some peppermint under your nose!" He defended. "I would think that you would be reluctant to apply it yourself!"

Molly's hands were slick with liquid that was formerly Constance Barker and splattered with brown, clumpy blood that has long since lost its capacity to carry oxygen.

A flush crawled up Molly's neck, staining her cheeks. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be curt. I, just, I. You startled me!"

"Perhaps if your face wasn't practically in her belly, you would have noticed my approach," Sherlock defended.

"I needed to see what I was doing!" Molly was now turned completely away from the corpse, focusing all of her attention on her husband.

Obvious. His wife's less than ideal eyesight wasn't a hard deduction, even John could figure it out. Molly had to hold her books and letters a hands length away from her face if she wished to make out the letters. Her writing desk, a gift from her father that was made for her specifically, had a high, slanted writing surface so that she could compose her letters without bending in half. If today proved that Molly was an asset in his work, he would have to rectify this deficiency.

Sherlock took advantage to swipe some oil under her nose, causing Molly to recoil and sneeze. "There. Now, we should get back to work."

Sherlock graciously ignored Molly's incredulously muttered, "We?"

Fortified with peppermint oil, Molly methodically examined Constance Barker's intestines, liver, and gall bladder, taking samples where necessary. She scooped out a small dark red mass and placed it in the silver disk to the side with a splat.

Sherlock bent down to examine it further. It looked to have the consistency of poorly set jelly, just barely holding on to its solid state of matter. Anatomy was never his area of interest, much preferring chemistry, geology and botany. "What is this? Some sort of clot?"

"Hmm," Molly replied in a distracted matter as she examined the already bisected stomach. "Nothing to be gained here." She returned the organ back to thorax. "What did you ask?"

"That." Sherlock pointed to the silver tray. "What is, or rather, was it?"

"Oh. That's her spleen. Could you hand me a syringe?"

"A syringe? What for?"

"Yes," Molly confirmed. "I want to see if there is any urine left to extract."

He looked down to see Molly holding a pale pink round bladder, flecked with thick yellow waxy globs of fat in her hands. Sherlock was a bit surprised that he was asked to play the role of the assistant, he hadn't had to do anything of the sort since his Cambridge days. Well, there wasn't anyone else in the lab, not that any of the assistants would help him, let alone a woman.

"Actually, if you could, grab two," Molly called as Sherlock searched the shelves for his goal. "I want to take some bile as well."

Sherlock handed Molly the syringe one at a time, watching her carefully extract the fluids she could. Samples obtained, she began replacing and rearranging the organs and spare tissue. "It's a pity I could not retrieve any stomach contents or blood." She frowned as she tried to tuck the duodenum under the liver. "I would have liked to test those as well. It's not Mr. Anderson's fault." Molly picked up a clamp and secured two skin folds together before picking up a threaded round needle to begin stitching. "Well, the blood isn't. The stomach contents are, though." She continued stitching until Constance Barker was reclosed, three large puckered false scars marking where she had been incised. Molly picked up her glass jars, containing her samples and handed them to her husband.

Sherlock gave Molly an incredulous look. While nowhere near the mess that coated her hands, her sample containers were far from clean and nothing that Sherlock wished to touch. Sherlock grabbed a somewhat clean rag off the empty adjacent autopsy table and dipped it in the basin of water that was just waiting to be used to clean his wife's hands. He used the rag as a barrier to grab the offered vials and cleaned them before placing them in Molly's carpetbag.

Molly took off her overlarge, borrowed apron and tossed it to the side. She wetted her hands in the cold water before dousing her hands with a carbolic acid solution and rinsing them. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that; he had not seen someone use cleaning solution to wash their hands before. Molly dried her hands on her skirt and turned to Sherlock with a smile. "I'm going to have to insist on some food before we start the lab work."

* * *

Molly was surprised at how quiet and still Sherlock was throughout her examination of Constance. She had expected more questions or fidgeting accompanied with demands that she hurry up. His almost docile actions were almost disorienting. Perhaps, he bowed to her superior knowledge of the human body?

Molly took another bite of her crumbly scone sandwich, savoring the salty ham and cold hard cheese. After only half a scone during the brief carriage ride to St. Bartholomew's, she was quite content to savor this snack. Calling it a meal would be far too generous. Molly picked a rather large crumb of scone off of her skirts and popped it in her mouth, keeping a wary eye on Sherlock. She hoped he was too entwined in his work to notice. It was horrible manners, but needs must sometimes. There was another sandwich left but she was hoping that she could convince her husband to eat it at some point. She did tell Mrs. Hudson she would try to make him eat.

Her husband was bouncing around the laboratory, collecting vials and testing strips as he went. While enjoyable, chemistry was never Molly's strongest subject. Sherlock more than made up for Molly's weaknesses, pausing only moments in his work to ask clarifying questions based on her notes. Her husband knew this lab just as well as he appeared to know the streets of London. As soon as he entered the room, he threw off his outer coat and sack coat, leaving him in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

Molly adjusted her skirts and turned to her husband. "Is there something I could do to help?"

Her initial awe of St. Bartholomew's laboratory with its gleaming clean wood, copious glass vials and shining metal tubing quickly wore away, leaving her bored. Perhaps if she assisted they could finish this up sooner.

"Start on the bile, if you please," Sherlock said as he continued crushing the liver between the mortar and pestle.

Molly cracked her neck and slid off the stool. The bile should be fairly straightforward. Reinsch's process should be more than adequate; it will be able to detect a fair number of toxic heavy metals.

Molly just finished carefully placing her sample of the bile in hydrochloric acid when the door opened. She glanced over her shoulder to see who was there but a shelf full of equipment obstructed her view.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

Molly almost giggled at the question. The person who asked must be familiar with her husband, she thought, due to the weary long-suffering tone of his voice. She often heard Mrs. Hudson ask similar questions in the same way.

"About time you've shown up, Stamford. We've been here for hours." Sherlock cracked his knuckles, sending an involuntary shudder down Molly's spine. "As for what we're doing? Obvious, I should think. We're conducting tests. There's a woman in your mortuary who's been murdered. I'd like to see the killer punished, wouldn't you?"

Molly squinted at her husband. She didn't think that Sherlock truly gave a fig about seeing the killer brought to justice; he probably just wanted to show everyone he was right.

A sigh emitted from the man, Stamford, Sherlock had called him. "It's too early for this. Watson, if you need a drink after this case I am more than willing to accompany you."

"Watson isn't here," Sherlock corrected, turning to place the crushed liver sample in its own dish of acid.

"What? You said 'we.' Who else would be-oh!"

Molly gave Stamford a weak smile as he rounded the corner and into view. He wasn't a very tall man, though many people looked small standing next to Sherlock, with a round face. His kind wide eyes swam behind rounded spectacles. He stared at her, his mouth hanging open.

Molly tugged on Sherlock's shirtsleeve. "Introduce us."

"Oh." Sherlock glanced up. "Mrs. Holmes, Dr. Michael Stamford, head of Bartholomew's pathology. Stamford, my wife Mary Holmes. Happy?"

He didn't wait for a reply, already ensconced in his work of adding hydrochloric acid to the small urine sample.

Molly dropped a curtsey in reply to Stamford's shallow bow.

"I was unaware that Holmes was married."

Molly was not at all surprised. Their wedding was not the grand society affair that her mother had wanted. Molly appealed to her father to scale it down to something more subdued. Surprisingly, the Holmes family agreed that a large wedding was not something they wished for either. If Sherlock didn't tell him and Dr. Stamford didn't see their banns or announcement in the Times, there was no reason he would know. It's not as if they left for a prolonged period of time and went on a bridal tour as was en vogue.

She was both disappointed and relieved at the lack of a bridal tour. Her parents didn't do much travelling, as her father was obsessed with his business and her mother had a delicate constitution. Molly had always wanted to visit the French Riviera or travel about Italy. She wanted to know if the Mediterranean was truly as warm as bathwater. See the art of the Romans and the grandeur of medieval Italy. Visit the grand French villas and experience the lavender seas of Provence.

Molly was just wary of doing all that with her husband. A man she hardly knew. The idea of travelling alone with just the two of them and their servants was nerve racking. Before she was informed that Sherlock had absolutely no intention of leaving London for the continent, she entertained a variety of nightmare scenarios on what would unfold on their journey. The anticipated anxiety assuaged the disappointment of not taking a bridal tour. Best to get to know each other on more familiar territory before travelling as husband and wife.

Not that Molly expected a bridal tour to happen in the near future. Perhaps, just perhaps, when they've grown more accustomed to each other she could find a way to convince him to experience continental Europe with her. Maybe if she enlisted the help of Dr. and Mrs. Watson, it could be accomplished.

Molly put on her society smile. The one that conveyed that she wanted nothing more than to be where she was at this moment. "We were married just this November."

"Oh! Still newlyweds! How lovely. I'm sure he's a most attentive husband."

Molly kept smiling, unsure of how to answer.

Sherlock spoke up before she could develop the perfect non-answer. "Mrs. Holmes, your bile."

Molly looked at the container that had turned a murky shade of purplish black. "Oh my! Do excuse me." She nodded at Dr. Stamford before focusing her attention back to her test. Molly delicately picked up a small coil of copper with forceps and submerged it in the acid solution

A hissing sound drew her attention to her right. She gasped involuntarily at the sight of a flaming test tube.

The almost maniacal gleam in Sherlock's eye was quite disconcerting. He gave her an innocent look. "I'm merely creating a sulphuret."

"I am sure there is no need to use that much potash, that quickly."

"Of course there is, I'm impatient."

Molly gave a humph that was an almost uncanny impression of her Grandmother Tuck. She pulled out the copper and rinsed it with water. Adrenaline surged through her as she examined the blackened wire. They were right. Constance was poisoned with antimony. _They were right._

Good heavens. She just helped solve a murder.

"Antimony!" she said, turning to face her husband.

Sherlock's mouth immediately curled up in an almost unholy grin. "Yes!" he cried, jumping up and down in his excitement. "She _was _murdered! I knew it! I knew it!" He laughed as he gave her a quick hug before turning to his test tube.

Molly stood there and blinked, still clasping the forceps. She could feel her face heat up in embarrassment and delight at his outburst.

Sherlock held up his test tube, smiling at the substance at the bottom of the tube. The acid and potash reaction had burnt away all organic material, leaving only the antimony residue.

"It could be arsenic."

The Holmeses looked at Stamford. Molly had forgotten about his presence. He was leaning against the shelf with an arched brow.

"Don't be stupid, Stamford. Arsenic isn't consistent with the body," Sherlock replied in derision. He dumped his sulphuret on the nearby balance. "One-tenth of a grain. That's one-quarter grain of tartar emetic."

"If there's that much in the urine, there must be a great amount in the liver," Stamford said. "I'll have one of the laboratory assistants retrieve the liver and determine the quantity. I would hazard that it would be about-"

"Four grains. More than enough to kill Constance Barker. Send runners to Scotland Yard and Baker Street with the results. I need to tell Lestrade."

* * *

"I said, 'No,' Holmes! If you wish to see the Inspector than you will wait until he is ready!"

"Honestly, Donovan! This is ridiculous."

Sally Donovan, Inspector Lestrade's secretary, clenched her jaw and glared at him before taking a deep breath. "What is this visit in reference to?"

"It is in reference," Sherlock said tightly, "to the murder of Constance Barker."

"Constance Barker wasn't murdered. Mr. Anderson's report found no signs of foul play," Sally said smugly. "You were wrong. It's all right, just admit it."

"Anderson is an idiot. Don't bother defending him," he continued when Sally opened her mouth to protest. "Just because he helped you find this position does not mean he is not an idiot. Honestly, you're smarter than that, kindly act like it. Mrs. Barker had high doses of antimony in her system, she was poisoned."

The secretary smoothed her dark blue skirts as she stood. "I will see if the Inspector is available. Wait here. I mean it, Holmes."

"I, as ever, aspire to do as you desire," Sherlock said with a smile.

Sally shot him a dark look before sweeping through a door to the back offices.

Sherlock immediately dropped the smile and sat down on the bench next to Molly.

Sherlock had to admit, his wife had been a good sport about today. Much better than John would have been, in fact. While John was undeniably more useful in the active sleuthing of cases, with his knowledge of both combat and fledgling powers of deduction, he was not keen on the quieter moments of casework. He was close to useless in the laboratory, sitting in a corner either complaining or snoring as Sherlock pondered and worked.

Molly was much more compliant and helpful. Besides a moment of protest when he hailed a hansom instead of a growler outside of Barts, she had been industrious in her assistance. Though she was obviously dismayed (uncharacteristically slouched posture, averted eyes, slack jaw, relaxed open hands) when he ordered the cab to Scotland Yard instead of Baker Street she didn't utter a word of protest. Though it was possible it was because of fatigue instead of docility. Obviously she would be completely incapable of assisting him on most of his cases but today combined with her performance at the Barker funeral lead him to think she could be quite the asset in his work. Woman always made good cover. Few men suspected them of any sort of intelligence and always did their best to impress and protect them. He eyed Molly as she attempted to stifle a yawn. No, she would never be a _femme fatale, _much too ordinary and honest but that in and of itself could be most beneficial in the future.

"She rules with quite the iron fist," Molly commented, the first thing she said to him in more than half an hour.

Sherlock murmured something he hoped sounded like an agreement. Sally Donovan was an irritating stickler for rules and protocol. She probably wouldn't be able to sleep at night if a 't' was left uncrossed or an 'i' was without it's dot.

A few minutes later Sally reemerged. "You may go back," she said as she retook her seat.

Sherlock nodded curtly and gestured for Molly to accompany him.

"Wait now, who's this?"

"My wife," Sherlock replied, taking delight in her open mouthed shock as he held the door open for Molly. Molly nodded at Sally with a weak smile in greeting before Sherlock ushered her through the door.

He threaded his way through the crowded desks of the Metropolitan Police with ease. Sherlock estimated that they would be expanding within the next decade due to lack of space. The main room should have been airy with its space and open windows. Instead the desks and cabinets crammed into such a way to maximize space just lent it an oppressive feel.

Sherlock didn't bother knocking on the door to Inspector Lestrade's office at the other side of the room, preferring to barge in.

"Holmes," Lestrade greeted wearily.

"I see you still have Donovan guarding your gates."

"Leave my secretary alone, please."

"Are you still insisting that she's just your secretary?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. Everyone at the Met knew that Sally was Lestrade's _de facto _lieutenant and while she was not able go out to crime scenes or patrol, she was involved with every case that crossed Lestrade's desk. A command from Sally was to be taken as an order from Lestrade, much to the discomfort of many the patrolmen.

"Formally, that's the only role she has. Now, what's this about the Barker case? And who is that behind you?"

Sherlock stepped aside to allow Molly in. Lestrade immediately leapt to his feet. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was always one to play the gallant gentleman. "Mrs. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, my wife."

"Ah, so this is the enigmatic Mrs. Holmes," Lestrade with a slight bow. "Here, have my seat, ma'am."

Sherlock's lips twisted at the flush that crawled up Molly's cheeks as she sat down in Lestrade's chair, murmuring her gratitude. Lestrade had just started to lighten up on prodding him about his wife; he was not looking forward to the remarks restarting. If it weren't for the fact that John made him leave a fascinating case for so that he could attend his wedding, Lestrade wouldn't have even known.

"As I was saying," Sherlock continued. If he was interrupted one more time in this case, he was going to do something far more drastic than pocketing Lestrade's badge. The case couldn't be closed until Lestrade bloody well did something about it and leering at his wife was not the something that needed to be done. "High doses of antimony were found in Mrs. Barker. She was murdered. Now will you do your job and get a warrant so you may _finally _search the house. Not that it will do any good, the husband has had more than enough time to be rid of the evidence. I can only hope he's as stupid as the Met!"

"I need a chemical report before I can do anything. You _know_ that Holmes. A magistrate won't issue a warrant on just your word. I need _something._" Lestrade turned his attention away from Molly to face him.

"It could be another day before the testing is done!" Sherlock protested. Bureaucracy_. _Always restricting his furrowed his brow as he noticed Molly dipping Lestrade's pen in its ink well and bending nearly in half to scrawl something on a clean sheet of paper. How she even found a clean sheet of paper on the mess that was Lestrade's desk was beyond him.

"Then get me a preliminary report. I can work with that. Someone had to help you at Barts, just get them to write something up," Lestrade relented. "You know I trust you but the magistrate does not."

The magistrate, like many of the people Sherlock knew, thought that he was merely a bored son of a nobleman doing tricks to fill his day.

"If I finish writing up a report and Dr. Stamford signs this in verification, would that suffice?" Molly asked. Her paper was half filled with her tight, neat script.

Lestrade shot Sherlock a glance before leaning over the desk to scan her draft. "Uh, yes. I suppose this would work. How-?"

"My wife assisted me at Barts today since no one was available so early in the morning. Just as well, Watson is useless in the laboratory."

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. He crossed his arms across his chest and pushed off the desk to stand just inches from Sherlock. "Really? Your _wife_ helped you." His voice was rich in disbelief.

"Yes," Sherlock bit out, taking a step back. He had noticed the stiffening of Molly's posture as she continued to write and he did not like it. As if he would allow anyone less than completely competent to assist him. He had no time for people's egos and sense of self-esteem. "I assure you Mrs. Holmes is quite conversant in anatomy and chemistry."

"Anatomy? I thought you said she helped you in the lab."

"She did but we needed to obtain samples from Mrs. Barker first. Honestly, Lestrade, how else would we find the antimony in her body? By sneezing on it? Use your head." Sherlock smirked as he tapped the greying inspector on the forehead for emphasis.

"You made your wife cut up a woman? A woman who, you told me, was someone she knew?" Lestrade asked, his voice pitched low enough that Sherlock had to strain to hear him. "Damn it, man, don't you have any decency? A gently bred woman should not have to see that!"

"She has the education and the experience," Sherlock ground out in his defense. Perhaps there was a point about having Molly dissect someone with whom she was familiar in life; people did get so emotional when it came to death. However, Molly didn't say one word in objection. Point, him.

"Excuse me, but I'm finished," Molly chimed in, holding out two sheets of paper. "I also penned a note to Dr. Stamford to let him know my educational background and the names of my professors at the London School in case he wished to verify any information."

"You can just leave it on the desk, Mrs. Holmes. I'll have a runner send it over to Barts immediately. I hope this trip hasn't been too much of an inconvenience."

"No, not at all," Molly assured Lestrade with a smile. "It was nice to get out of the house and get my hands dirty again." Molly's eyes widened and her smile slipped off her face as she bit her lip. "Er, so to speak. I don't mean to say that I wanted, well I did, oh," she cut herself off.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I'll speak to the magistrate as soon as Stamford signs this. Will you be skulking about here, Holmes? Or should I send for you at Baker Street?"

"Baker Street," Sherlock answered immediately. "I need to retrieve my magnifying glass and send for Watson."

"And take your wife home, of course" the inspector added.

Sherlock glanced over at Molly who was busy staring at her hands. "Naturally."

* * *

Some historical notes

**So why don't they have their own carriage?** It's cheaper. A ride in a cab would cost about a shilling for the first two miles (depending upon where you were) and six-pence (1/2 a shilling) for each additional mile. A carriage would cost about £132 pounds to purchase (not including the cost of a horse!) and about £200 for it and the horse's upkeep. That's 6,640 shillings for the first year with 4,000 each additional year! That's a lot of cab rides!

**Sally's a secretary. Why? **The first female cop didn't join the Met until 1919 (this is discounting the Women Volunteer Police which was formed in 1914). Forty years is a little too much fudging for my comfort. I wanted to have as many familiar faces as possible in this story and I thought this was the best way to get her in. At first I toyed with her being an agent of Mycroft's who he set up as Molly's maid at Baker's Street who would be an informant for him and later protect his family (And the reason Sherlock disliked her was that he didn't figure it out for over a month) but I thought it seemed rather hokey and I could do better by her.

**Holy shit she just washed her hands in acid. **Sanitation and germ theory was actually understood in 19th century, it just wasn't _accepted. _ Dr. Semmelweis wrote a paper that the reason women were dying in childbirth was due to poor sanitation and everyone laughed. He was right. Physicians would give women pelvic exams during birth, perfectly normal except they wouldn't wash their hands beforehand. And it wasn't uncommon for them to come straight from the morgue or another patient. Semmelweis conducted an experiment where all the medical personnel had to wash their hands in an antiseptic solution (carbolic acid) before attending a patient. Puerperal Fever fatalities dropped by over 90%. The medical establishment's response could be boiled down to: Doctors are gentlemen, and gentlemen's hands are clean.


End file.
